


Dance Until Sunset

by Kastaka



Category: Suzanne - Leonard Cohen (Song)
Genre: F/F, Misses Clause Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 23:10:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kastaka/pseuds/Kastaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Suzanne holds the mirror up to the narrator's own relationship, saving their holiday in Paris...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance Until Sunset

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emei/gifts).



> With thanks to Isis from #yuletide for awesome beta-ing services!

You stumble across the small group of people dancing in the evening sunlight quite by accident.

There had been a plan, you were sure, when the two of you had come to Paris in the first place. You were going to sit in cafes and watch the world go by. You were going to visit art galleries, museums, tourist attractions. You would head up to the Sacre Coeur and ascend the Eiffel Tower and stroll around Pigalle.

None of these plans involved you being on your own. None of these plans had involved the 'centrally located' hotel being in the red light district, full of dubious little bars with provocatively dressed women, the streets patrolled by streetwalkers, the shameless barkers for the private shows eyeing you both suspiciously as you walked hand in hand on your way to the cabaret.

Then, of course, work happened. You tried to show your support, holing up in the room and reading a book on the bed, but your lover scowled at her laptop on the tiny desk and told you to go and amuse yourself. She told you she didn't want the distraction of feeling she'd let you down.

You wanted to tell her that you didn't quite feel safe, in such a big city, to be walking by yourself; but you rolled the words around in your mind and you felt that you couldn't say them without essentially spitting on the efforts of all those people who'd tried to convince you and themselves and the world that you were just as strong and worthy as the next person, so instead you put your bookmark in your place and tied a coat around your waist, and left.

The dancers are so beautiful, so unselfconscious, that you can't help but stop and watch them. You have a little schoolgirl French, but you are usually too shy to strike up a conversation with strangers, even in the language you speak well. So you just hang around the edge of the square, awkwardly.

Then one of the dancers with rags in her hair looks up and notices you; smiles, and beckons you over. What can you do but follow?

\----

Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river  
You can hear the boats go by  
You can spend the night beside her

\----

One thing leads to another, seamlessly, with that floating logic that a dream uses to link its scenes.

You come down into the square and you dance with the small crowd. You quickly shed your lack of confidence. There's something in the music that lends itself to dancing, that practically animates your feet of their own accord. Your new acquaintance smiles encouragingly; she makes you One Of Them with her obvious approval.

Eventually the light begins to fail, and you are seized with a sudden fear: you must get back to the hotel room before dark! Otherwise the streetwalkers will be out in force, and the oppressive environment in which a single female is deeply unwelcome will descend into place around the surprisingly respectable establishment on its outskirts. You are almost certain that you couldn't be mistaken for one of the prostitutes in your thick, warm coat and sensible trousers; but not quite certain enough for comfort.

She comes over to you as the musicians finish and begin to pack up their instruments. Not a word has passed between you; she lays a hand on your arm. In any other place, in any other time, it might make you deeply uncomfortable; but you have been dancing together, and in the sunset light it seems entirely natural.

Intending to ask her name, to thank her for the moment, you open your mouth to speak; but she puts her finger against her lips in such a charmingly naive and innocent gesture, right out of a children's book, that it would be churlish to disobey her. She looks anxiously at you, seeking approval, seeking validation; the kohl around her ingenuous brown eyes making them seem impossibly huge. If you want to withhold your consent, to go in peace, you know that you simply need to look away.

You hold the gaze just a few moments too long, and she links her arm with yours, meeting with no resistance. Waving cheerfully and guilelessly to the other assembled people, who are chattering amongst themselves far too fast to follow - some of whom wave back - she steers you out of the square.

This isn't the way back to the hotel, but, somehow, you can't bring yourself to worry about it.

\----

The sunset cascades across the water like an oil painting as you arrive at the Pont Neuf.

From time to time you think about your lover; you think about the insanity of what you're doing, letting a perfect stranger lead you across an unfamiliar city, when you really ought to be getting back to the safety of your anonymous hotel room and your restless, working lover.

But the quality of the light and the effortless grace of the stranger's ethereal stride through the darkening streets has you swept up in the moment for most of the journey, and although she has dropped her hold on your arm, there's a strange kind of magnetism which keeps you near the enigmatic creature, keeps you from straying out of her path. As you get deeper into parts of the city that you have not yet explored, the urge to stick with your guide grows stronger.

You know that you should say something; know that this isn't how people behave, this isn't sensible, this isn't the kind of thing that you get yourself involved in; but what can you do? There have been plenty of opportunities to take another course; just a momentary flicker of doubt at the right moment, you know, would have broken the spell.

It seems inconceivable that you could come to harm with such an innocent leading you, as if such a thing as beauty truly exists in the world, and functions as a guard against peril. And it is no conventional beauty. She is not especially stylish; her face is bright but her complexion not entirely clear, her hair is tangled and her clothes almost seem like an afterthought. It is her sheer unselfconscious buoyancy that elevates her from the common run of humanity and puts her on a pedestal that she seems unable to notice.

To some extent, it is the constant expression of wonder in her eyes; as if everything she sees, the straightforward residential streets of Paris and the people making their way to their evening entertainments, are the most beautiful things that had ever existed.

As if you, the passenger in this experience, are a perfect jewel, such as you have never imagined yourself to be.

\----

There is a tiny staircase set into the side of the imposing medieval bridge; it would be very easy to overlook its presence.

She opens a small gate and gives you a look that is eager and worried and beautiful, holding the gate for you to proceed down the staircase. The carved stone steps are worn smooth with the passage of ages, a slight indentation in the middle; there is only room for one person to go down them at a time, and they turn a corner, leading out of sight.

You go down to the tiny landing, and look up to see her closing the gate behind you. So many moments; so many choices; so many points of no return... in that moment you could say "No," could countermand the closing of the gate, could explain that you were very sorry, but your partner was waiting for you and would worry as to where you had got to. But you do no such thing.

The tiny metal bolts slide home beneath her nimble, brown fingers, and the moment is lost. Onwards is the only direction; onwards down towards the river, and down towards a little platform before a wooden door set in the side of the bridge; an incongruously ordinary house door; it reminds you of an old house you once lived in.

What would your parents say to this, the thought rises unbidden, what would they say about the chances you were taking? Would they be worried, and if they were would they say anything? Or would they keep their silence, for fear of stifling you? Would they fret; might they fuss a little about whether it was hygienic down here? Or would they be happy to see you making friends, wherever it might take you? In a way, you feel, they should be proud of you.

Spontaneity has never been your strong suite. But she has spontaneity for both of you, and unlocks the door in front of you.

\----

And you know that she's half crazy  
But that's why you want to be there  
And she feeds you tea and oranges  
That come all the way from China

\----

The exotic waft of oranges studded with cloves billows from the warmly lit interior.

It competes with a flowery scent, as she bids you enter, and closes the door behind you. The room appears to be some kind of mixture between a kitchen and a dining room; there are baskets and jars and straggles of material pouring over surfaces as if the whole thing is a single living creature, although there is no sign of dirt; this chaos has order.

She finishes aligning the door and fiddling with the lock to her satisfaction, and pulls out one of the wooden chairs with worn red velvet seat-cushions, the kind that are integral to the design rather than the kind that can slide off. She invites you to take a seat at the table, and so you do, as she busies herself excavating a teapot and considering a little wooden chest of drawers which is sitting on one of the counters, opening and closing the tiny drawers and sniffing their contents critically.

Garlic and herbs hang in bundles from the ceiling, along with the clove-oranges on ribbons. Two interior doors lead sideways and further into the bastion, closed and decorated with coat-hooks and their colourful contents. You begin to feel quite warm in your coat, but the act of removing it yourself seems too strident, seems to assume too much about your place here.

She reaches up to a half-hidden boiler and turns on the little snaking tap which deposits boiling water straight into the teapot. Swirling it around meditatively, she decides on the correct combination of tea-leaves and shakes them into the teapot with fierce concentration. She places the teapot down on a cheerfully woven mat made of tiny, twisted offcuts, and turns to you once more.

Smiling, she takes the coat from your shoulders, arranging it across the back of the chair, absent-mindedly running a hand through your hair and down your shoulder. The gesture is so natural, so innocent; sitting in the chair, you twist gracefully like a cat presenting its belly, pushing your head against her hand.

The flowery tea-smell mingles with the herbs, intoxicating, otherworldly, new and old at the same time.

\----

And just when you mean to tell her  
That you have no love to give her  
Then she gets you on her wavelength  
And she lets the river answer  
That you've always been her lover

\----

She pours tea for you both into little fake-china cups, painted in the style of Victorian miniatures.

The room is endlessly fascinating; there are no windows, and the light from the exquisitely shaded lamp, hanging like an afterthought mid-ceiling, casts odd shadows through the basket-weave and past the gently swaying herbs. She presents you with a steaming cup, and takes a seat opposite; she watches the steam rise, thoughtfully.

"I..." you say, eventually. The strangely companionable silence had seemed too deep for you to break it immediately, but the tea still isn't ready. You are surprised to have found your voice, and pause for a moment, but she looks up with those dazzling, vivid eyes and you find the strength to continue. "This... this really isn't me, you know. This isn't the kind of thing I usually do." You raise a hand to the teacup in lieu of anything better to do with it.

"N'est-ce pas?" she replies, tilting her head slightly. There's a message in her gaze, you're sure, but it's so hard to define - concern for you, yes, and a strange longing that she is attempting to keep in check; and the minutest trace of sadness, perhaps, or maybe just fear of disappointment.

"I..." you start again. "I mean... it's okay, it's lovely, you haven't done anything wrong..." She gives you that encouraging smile again, letting you go on. "I just... I don't know why I'm here, I don't even know how much English you understand, maybe you don't understand a word I'm saying? And I know that I probably wouldn't understand you if you were speaking like this in your own language, and oh, I don't know..."

She smiles, not judging you, not disappointed; there is a sparkle around the edge of her smile which says, distantly, "And how do you know that this is not my proper language?", but she does not speak; she simply breathes gently across the surface of her teacup, then grasps it in both hands and takes a sip, watching you teasingly over it.

The tea is very nice; some Earl Grey perhaps in the mix, very floral, with an exotic hint you can't quite place.

\----

And you want to travel with her  
And you want to travel blind  
And you know that she will trust you  
For you've touched her perfect body with your mind.

\----

As you near the end of your tea, your mind returns to the lengthening shadows that must be gathering outside; or perhaps it is already dark.

From inside the cosy, timeless little room, there is no way to tell. She has finished her tea some time before, and between curious, almost amused glances at you, is doing some kind of strange crochet with lengths of fabric rather than yarn. You wonder what it is that she sees in you, wants from you, but somehow you know that's the wrong question.

Not quite draining your cup to the dregs, not wanting to imbue the moment with such finality, you sit up and return her gaze.

For a moment there is apparently something very interesting in the craft project; then she finds a convenient resting point and places the item in construction on top of a nearby basket of cloth. Instead of looking directly at you, she looks up for a moment, off into the middle distance, like a dog or a rabbit straining to hear something beyond human ability.

"On y va," she says, suddenly, getting up from her chair. She pauses for a moment in indecision, looking at the front door, the inner door...

"Dedans..." she says thoughtfully, almost to herself, "ou dehors?"

She looks at you nervously, for the first time in the evening seeming uncertain, like there might be something unusual about all this after all.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, I'm afraid," you say, worriedly.

"Dehors," she concludes, nodding enthusiastically, almost to convince herself, covering up the trace of sadness and disappointment that flashes briefly across her features.

\----

Now Suzanne takes your hand  
And she leads you to the river  
She is wearing rags and feathers  
From Salvation Army counters

\----

It is much darker than you expect it to be, outside, and you wonder vaguely what the time is.

You wonder vaguely if your lover has missed you, has noticed the light fading and wondered where you were, or whether she is still bound to the screen and the electric lights of the hotel, which had been on behind the tightly closed curtains even in the middle of the day.

After a while, you notice that she isn't leading any more; that you are heading down the well-lit tourist streets on the approach to the 'good' side of your hotel, the approach that doesn't go through too much of the hidden-in-plain-sight world of paid intimacy, just off the road from the tourist trap of the Place Pigalle. The heart of Paris, the hotel's advertisement had read; yes, you suppose, that is the heart of Paris, the unsightly lump of meat that keeps blood moving around the body.

But in your invitation to her impossible little house, buried in the side of the oldest bridge, you have been privileged to see instead the soul. And now she is hanging on your arm, and you wonder how you will introduce them, your lover and the stranger.

"I'm sorry," you apologise, automatically, "but I don't even know your name." The words do not stand out as much as you had feared; there are many people having many conversations in many languages around you. She smiles up at you, and pats your shoulder reassuringly. "Suzanne," she replies. "Et toi?" It feels like more than just a polite enquiry; there is a strange hopefulness in her expression.

You give her your name, and she seems to be satisfied; more than satisfied, she repeats it back to you, or possibly just to the world in general; mulling it over like a fine wine.

\----

And the sun pours down like honey  
On our lady of the harbour  
And she shows you where to look  
Among the garbage and the flowers

\----

You are suddenly in front of your hotel, where you were sure you would meet with streetwalkers and trouble.

But all you've seen on the way is the closed-up front of the quaint little grocer's shop, the unique jumble of terraced, many-floored houses jostling for space, those hydrants that they have for washing the streets, a man sitting on the kerb with his dog.

Suzanne obviously expects to be taken up to your room, and you see no reason why you wouldn't; she's invited you into her home, the least you should do is invite her into the little bit of personal space you have here. You wonder briefly what your lover will think, but you can't see how she could take it badly. Suzanne and you haven't _done_ anything; you are just friends. Perhaps not even friends. You danced a little and you drank tea together, that's all.

And how could your lover not be charmed with this tousle-headed girl, in any case? You try to tell yourself you're just embarrassed that you have nothing to offer which compares to the little house under the Pont Neuf, but it's not just that. It's not just that.

By this time you are already halfway up the stairs; it's not that you don't trust the lift, it's not that you don't like lifts, but stairs give you more time to think, give you more time (you admit) on your own with Suzanne before the inevitable meeting. Putting Suzanne in a lift would just seem so odd, as well; such a tiny mechanical box could not possibly contain her, who seems to come from another world.

Then you are outside the door to your room, fumbling in your pocket for the keycard, swiping it through the mechanism...

\----

There are heroes in the seaweed  
There are children in the morning  
They are leaning out for love  
And they will lean that way forever  
While Suzanne holds the mirror

\----

It goes better than you could ever have thought possible.

You don't, conventionally, have an open relationship. You've seen other people make it work, and you've seen other people's lives disintegrate into a puddle of drama and recriminations, and you've decided between yourselves not to take the risk.

But there's a difference between an open relationship and a holiday romance; and there's a difference between just anyone, and Suzanne.

You lay on the bed, sated and half-asleep, as she whispers her apologies and gathers her clothes. You hear your lover sleepily argue that she should stay, that she shouldn't worry, that she shouldn't be afraid.

What would, what could Suzanne be afraid of, you wonder?

\----

And you want to travel with her  
And you want to travel blind  
And you know that you can trust her  
For she's touched your perfect body with her mind.

\----

When you wake up, you find that she has left you a note.

It gives directions to the square in Montmartre where you found her, and a time that you assume is a time to meet her.

You and your lover head down past the whitewashed houses and through the winding streets, and you find the square and the musicians already setting up for the evening's entertainments.

For hours you stay there, you watch, you dance - and miraculously, your lover dances too, even though she rarely dances.

But there is no Suzanne. You think about going up to the bridge...

...but you don't want to know.

You don't want to find that there is no gate, that there are no stairs, that there is no little house nestled in the bastions of medieval stonework.

Your lover argues that something might be wrong, that you owe her a visit, but you refuse to take her.

You suspect that Suzanne needs you a lot less than you needed her.

You tell her that she should just respect Suzanne's gift, as it was, whole and complete in and of itself.

Then both of you dance until sunset.


End file.
